


Started in Juniors

by suisseconfiture



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 17:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16728078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suisseconfiture/pseuds/suisseconfiture
Summary: Sascha was confident, as he should be. Stefanos was nervous, as he would be. Four years later, the tides didn't shift, but at least Stef could actually win a match.





	Started in Juniors

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely people on twitter who are for some reason excited for this trash-fic  
> i hope you lot enjoy! xx

The locker rooms of junior events were never as loud as people would expect. It was quiet. Stefanos sat in there frequently to get away from the noise when it became too much, of which likely contributed to the fact that no one knew who he was.

Unfortunately, as the ITF Grade got higher, the solitude of the locker room was becoming quite the opposite. He was getting into Grade A events but was spending very little time at the venue for this reason. The hotel then the practice courts, practice courts to the locker room, then the match back to the hotel.

He wasn't one to stick around anymore.

The young Greek, only sixteen, stood at the entrance to Melbourne Park. He looked down at his phone to examine the draw, scanning until he found his name. Right above the likes of-

Alexander Zverev.

He let out an audible groan just at the sight.

Stef couldn't stand that smug bastard. Whether it was his irritating 'come on' or just his obnoxious looking face, they never got along.

Especially not off the court.

Apostolos nudged his son's shoulder gently, gesturing with his head over to the practice courts.

"We need to check it or they'll all be gone." He informed his son, taking a few steps in that direction. Stef nodded and followed, tucking his phone into his adidas branded jacket pocket.

 

__ 

 

Sascha's eyes sat on the draw with a smug smirk on his face, seeing who he would be facing for a start. He rarely had to play Stef but when he did, he always went out of his way to make it frustrating for him.

Stef was the emotional sort and seeing him get angry was entertaining.

He passed his phone over to his brother at the dining table, who was busy taking a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"So, good or bad?" Mischa asked with food still in his mouth, handing the phone back. Irina smacked his arm, telling him in Russian to close his mouth.

"Neither. It's great." Sascha laughed, putting his phone away and going back to his lunch. "He's a drama queen."

"Sascha." Irina spoke sternly, scolding him from the opposite end of the table.

He promptly dropped it and started talking about something else, as to avoid the wrath of his mother. Alexander Sr. let it be, finding it to just be confidence showing in the form of a bit of gossip.

Who could blame a kid for being confident?

 

__

 

25 degrees, cloudy skies with a chance of rain. Stefanos sat on the bench in front of his locker, changing from a t-shirt to his match shirt. He was tuned out from the outside world, lost in his stupidly philosophical thoughts and ideas of grandeur that seemed to always nag him.

The teenager stopped before he got into his shirt, letting it rest in his hands as he stared at the ground blankly. He was stuck in one of his mini existential crises and at a bad time too, as the match was to be starting in merely fifteen minutes.

Sascha slung his bag over his shoulder, walking along the halls many greats had walked before him; and would walk many years after him.

One day, he thought. One day I'll be on the wall. Holding the trophy.

Those thoughts always seemed to unlock a previously unknown reserve of energy. He jumped up and down a few times like Rafa, hyping himself up.

He was ready to play, ready to conquer.

Sascha was ready to win.

Stefanos, on the other hand, was dismantling himself entirely without even realising it. The Greek dragged himself out of his severely zoned out headspace to quickly get his shirt on, then tie his headband. When he pulled his bag over his shoulder, it completed the prep.

He stood in place, taking a few deep breaths before turning around and--

They collided, full speed, both toppling over with the younger of the two landing flat on his back. Stef let out a loud yelp, turning on his side with hands covering his face.

Sascha landed awkwardly on his leg, a bit too busy and caught up in his own pain to notice Stef writhing in equal pain on the cold floor.

The first thought that popped in his head when he actually realised the latter's state was, a medical retirement. It wasn't a good thought, but it was the very first one.

"You okay?" Sascha asked, standing up and shaking out the pain before walking over to offer a hand. He didn't look as in pain as before.

"What do you think?" Stef retorted, raising his voice in evident anger as he winced. Gradually, he sat up and pulled his hands away from his face, glaring at Sascha. "Watch where you're going."

He ignored the offered extremity, picking himself up and his bag off the ground without the help. Stef then pushed past him, knocking shoulders with him. The teen muttered under his breath as he left. A simple little remark.

'Stupid prick.'

Sascha may have been taller and stronger, but Stef had fire. The elder knew that. Just the very thought caused that smirk to appear on his face, turning around to see him leave.

 

 __

 

6-4 6-7 6-2 5-7 6-4, Sascha prevailed ultimately but not without a battle. A broken racquet and a lot of yelling seemed to pay off in the end.

The exchange at the net was cold, to say the least, with the briefest of handshakes and not a second glance. Stef was there one minute, gone the next. He wanted to be out of there as soon as possible.

Every second away from that rotten German was a second not wasted.

Conversely, Sascha wanted to be around him more. For some reason, he was interested in him, even if he had a way of pissing him off.

 

__

 

Four years later and their relationship never improved. Between those years, they only played one match at the Citi Open. They rarely spoke when they passed one another, and even less so when the time came to shake hands. Stef hated the very sight of him and Sascha only liked it to get a laugh out of his emotions, which could be seen as a bit hypocritical considering his own, at times, extreme emotions.

When Stef hit himself repeatedly in the forehead in D.C., all he got was a headache, and Sascha got a laugh.

Finally, another main draw match came at the Rogers Cup, and Stef wasn't particularly looking forward to it.

Sascha, on the other hand, was ecstatic. It had been a month or so since they had a match and now he got the chance to inspect him a bit closer. The pictures online weren't cutting it anymore. The fascination that started in juniors evolved as the two became more popular, more active and better in general.

It was a battle back then, but now, it was a war.

 

__ 

 

This war, however, was not a war well fought on the Zverev side. The Tsitsipas army proved too strong and broke through the defence, effectively knocking the German out with relative ease.

Sascha didn't expect it, and, honestly, Stefanos didn't really expect it either. The victory was well received, however.

He celebrated, had his moment of glory, stared up into the heavens and thanked God for this feeling of bliss. They didn't share the moment however, their handshake was even colder than before.

Sascha stormed off the court, feeling a cocktail of anger and something close to envy. The layers of emotions matched the number of layers in a crepe cake. All he wanted was a wall to punch, a racquet to smash or something he could break.

He'd spend the next twenty minutes in the locker room, calming himself down with methods that were useless in the end. He would have to go for his post-match press conference soon, but he was considering just cancelling it outright.

They would believe him if he said he'd started cramping.

Stefanos got to the showers, leaving his bag by his locker as he took his brief leave. When he emerged from the steam of the shower room, he was greeted by Sascha.

It was a bit awkward, as Stef hadn't gotten his clothes from his locker yet and was still in a towel. He honestly expected the place to be empty. Even more awkward when he realised, he'd essentially cornered him. Sascha had come onto him, looking like he was lost for words that had been there before. The words ran away and he couldn't catch them.

"Why." Was all he could say. With the expression on Sascha's face, Stef could tell he didn't mean to say it- but it came out either way.

"Why, what?" The Greek asked slowly, cocking an eyebrow in confusion.

"Why are you-" The German gestured towards him, finally saying in an almost angry tone. "You."

"God, I don't know. Maybe you should ask some other time, man." Stef's words trailed off as he reached one of his arms past the looming figure, grabbing ahold of his clothes. Sascha still didn't move.

Stef hesitated. Sascha kept his eyes fixed on him.

"Do you want me to change in front of you or something, or are you going to move?" He asked, sarcasm evident in his voice as he returned the gaze. It was a joke, but Sascha didn't find it funny. His expression didn't change at all.

"Why did you win?" Sascha asked with an expression on confusing, being a far cry from the Sascha he'd recalled from that day nearly four years ago.

To say he was shocked was not a strong enough word to describe his reaction. He didn't know how to react to that. Stef stood for a moment, grasping for words that weren't there in the form of slight 'um's.

"Well, you can't win everything, y'know." Stef mumbled, shifting himself from the position he'd been trapped in. The German didn't stop him, rather he took a few steps away to give him some space.

Sascha was being stupid, which wasn't exactly working in his favour. When he realised how stupid what he'd just done was, he put his hands over his eyes and silently whispered to himself in Russian. He'd let his moment of low-confidence potentially freak him out.

Eventually, he would have to talk to him again. Maybe in a less moronic manner.

Chances were few and far between, and he had just managed to blow one; especially considering it was Stefanos trying to avoid him now.

 

__

 

Asking around a bit paid off and Sascha managed to get Stef's phone number from a player staying in the same hotel that knew him. Perhaps it was a bit creepy, but he knew that the Greek would never give it willingly. Not after the stupid conversation they'd had not but a month earlier.

So, he took a seat at the hotel's restaurant and gave him a call. It rang three times before Stef picked it up. For a moment, he didn't say anything; likely expecting it to be an automated scam.

"Hello?" He spoke clearly, but also questioningly.

"Stefanos?" Sascha asked with his cheek resting against his hand.

"...Yeah, who's this?"

Stef had no clue who was on the other end. Sascha didn't have the most recognisable voice in the world.

"It's Sascha."

"Oh." With the say he said it, he sounded almost disappointed that he wasn't some automated telemarketer selling cheap cruise tickets.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go out to lunch with me."

There was a brief silence.

"Why?"

"Well, why not?"

Another pause. Faintly, Sascha could hear him talking to someone else, but it was in Greek. It was hard to hear.

"So, you're going to take me out?"

"Obviously."

"Are you going to pay?"

"Obviously."

Yet another pause with talking being just ever so slightly present in the background. After nearly a minute of quiet speaking, he finally came back to the phone.

"So, why do you want to take me out?"

"Can't I just be generous without being questioned?"

"No."

"I..." Sascha paused, biting his lip as he tried to think of a good reason. "I want to apologise for what I said in Toronto."

"That was over a month ago."

"I still want to say sorry."

"Why did you take so long?"

"Are you accepting, yes or no?"

"Yes, fine, I'll go. What time?"

"Tomorrow, twelve thirty. I'll be at the Rosiers Hotel."

"Ok, I'll see you then."

Before Sascha could say goodbye, Stef hung up the phone. He pulled it away and stared at his phone screen for a moment, eyebrows furrowed.

How rude.

 

__ 

 

Sascha called Stef at nearly seven in the morning for a schedule change and, surprisingly, he answered on the fourth ring.

"What?" He inquired in a low, groggy tone. Stef had been woken up by the phone.

"Breakfast or dinner?"

"...Why are you-"

"Just answer the question."

"Breakfast, I pick breakfast."

"Okay, then get up and come to my hotel. I know a place."

"Uh-huh..." Stef mumbled, still half asleep.

"See you soon." Sascha quickly interjected before hanging up, not allowing himself to be hung up on twice in a row. Having been awake for nearly an hour before, he had already done his daily ritual.

Brushing his hair, his teeth, washing his face and getting dressed for the morning. He took himself down to the lobby and stood just outside the door, leaning back against the wall while scrolling past photos blankly on his phone.

Stef's Instagram photos came up with those stupidly philosophical captions he so prided himself on using. If there were any sort of Greek stereotype, he'd fit it right down to the last letter.

Time escaped him and before long, he'd fully zoned out. The only thing that snapped him out of it was a literal snap of the fingers.

"Sascha, wake up." Stefanos's voice infiltrated his mind, bringing him back to reality as his eyes finally broke from the bright screen.

"Wow, you actually came." Sascha murmured lowly, fully acknowledging that it was a long-shot that actually worked.

"Yes, I actually did." His voice was tinged with laughter as a smile appeared on his face. "So where's the place you were talking about?"

Sascha took a moment to admire his smile because of how genuine it was. He never randomly smiled; so when he did, it was special.

"It's down the street." The German whispered as if it were a secret, smiling as well as he started walking in the direction of the location. Despite it being a Thursday, the streets were extremely empty. It was a bit confusing, but neither of them said anything about it. In fact, the walk was actually quite silent.

Another confusing thing was the clouds that seemed to be forming overhead. Sascha had looked at the weather that morning, and it wasn't supposed to be cloudy. Sunny, actually, but there wasn't very much sun at all.

Neither of them had a jacket with them either.

"Why are all the shops closed?" Stef's voice cut through the silence, looking over at the other for a moment before pointing at one of the signs. "I think that means closed."

'Fermée' did, indeed, mean closed.

"Fuck."

Sascha pressed his palm against his forehead in defeat, shaking his head.

"It's All Saints' Day." He muttered almost bitterly, slowly pulling his hand away to look up at the sky. "I'm so stupid."

"Well no one is arguing on the last part, but we forget sometimes." Stef tried to reassure him, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. For a few moments, he'd forgotten how much he disliked him before. Sascha turned his gaze back to look at the Greek, pursing his lips for a moment before smiling.

The media was so good at what they do, that even the alleged issues amongst players turned into very real ones occasionally. Everyone wanted Stef and him to have an intense rivalry.

Suddenly, Stef flinched out of nowhere then looked around.

"What's wrong?" Sascha was quick to ask. Stef didn't respond for a second, rather looked up at the sky before droplets of rain began to fall steadily.

Steady turned into heavy and they both started their nearly 150-metre run to Sascha's hotel. They were already soaking and dripping wet when they made it to the lobby, Stefanos now loudly complaining that he didn't think he would've needed a jacket that day.

The pair walked up to the hotel room, albeit dejectedly, still tracking rainwater on the way up. When they arrived, Sascha picked up a towel out of the bathroom and draped it over Stef's head.

Before he even realised it, the taller was drying off his hair for him.

Stef was completely lost for a second, finding himself staring directly at Sascha for far longer than he'd ever done before. He was still dripping but decided to start drying him off without even hesitating.

The Greek had never noticed how blue his eyes were. Likewise, Sascha never took note of how lovely Stef's tan complexion was. Sun-kissed might be a good word to describe it.

That rain had been freezing and both were borderline shivering. Stef suffered more so as the Greek climate he'd grown up with left him with a nonexistent cold tolerance.

Sascha slowed his drying motions to a halt, once again taking time to admire him.

He wasn't going to mess it up this time.

The towel remained over Stef's hair, one of Sascha's hands trailing down to rest on the back of his neck. Without another moment of hesitation, he pulled him in with the connection being made right where he wanted it.

A piece of him wanted it to be terrible so those horrible, schoolgirl-esque dreams would be proven untrue; but it didn't work. His lips were even softer than he could have dreamed of and more welcoming than he would've imagined. Stef was clearly taken aback by the gesture at first but received it with a sense of relief.

With an opportunity presenting itself, Sascha decided to go with it.

His free hand ran down his side to the slight curve of the Greek's waist, although the feeling was obstructed by a wet t-shirt. So, he simply got rid of it.

In one simple motion, it came off with a brief break in the kiss. Just before they could go back in for more, the door clicked. Someone unlocked it.

Stef reacted first, stepping away and immediately going into the bathroom; closing the door. He didn't know what else to do. Sascha grabbed another towel and started drying himself off, praying to God the person that walked in didn't see the other person.

Mischa came in, merely glancing over at his brother as he walked past him and grabbed his phone off the desk.

"Rain?" He simply asked, quirking one eyebrow a bit as he briefly scanned his brother's rain-soaked figure.

"Lots of it." Sascha laughed a bit nervously, which Mischa picked up on but decided not to entertain it.

"Well, have fun with that." Mischa concluded with a shrug, leaving just as soon as he entered. Sascha waited a minute or so before walking over and opening the bathroom door.

Stef was drying off and had to take off his pants, draping the towel around himself as he seemed to wait. He didn't look down, as much as he wanted to, rather but gestured him to come out with a tilt of the head.

"Could I borrow some clothes?"

"Yeah, hang on." Sascha stepped aside for a second and opened his suitcase that was a complete wreck, rifling through everything until he found a t-shirt and some pants. Without looking up at him, he tossed them onto the bed and just assumed he grabbed them.

He assumed correctly.

Stef got dressed swiftly and put the towel in the hamper, grabbing his phone and room key from his wet pants.

The room was silent, and Stef found himself creeping closer and closer to the door. Sascha glanced at him, then down at his watch.

"You should-"

"Probably go." He interrupted, internally thankful that he got his opportunity to leave without seeming rude. "I'll see you around, maybe."

Sascha didn't mean for it to come off like that, but he didn't know a way around it.

"Yeah, maybe."

Stef slowly nodded, reaching behind to open the door and walking out. The German waited until he left to lean back against the wall, staying on his spot on the floor.

A small smile painted his lips as a laugh escaped, shaking his head.

Of all the people that could charm him, it just had to be Tsitsipas.

He couldn't focus on that however, he had to beat Diego Schwartzman in less than four hours.


End file.
